| SPC is the hardest clique
|
| DBX don’t give a fuck ‘cause you a star that’s rich
|
| When it comes to flow, we are the shit
|
| We started this from the darkened mist
|
| This Texas chainsaw slaughter shit
|
| AC Chill is who I’m mobbing with
|
| Gangsta NIP don’t even trip on who he squabbing with
|
| We hard to hit and still on niggas talking shit
|
| PSK gon' grab your jaw and twist
|
| Point Blank gon' fuck you, bitch, even though your father’s strict
|
| We are the risk when you target ditch, your car get hit
|
| Now spark and spit, you’re dumped in the darkest ditch
|
| And five-o ain’t solving shit
|
| They acting fraudulent when we walk into the park to sit
|
| You wanna snitch on DBX, I beg your pardon, bitch
|
| If you don’t give a fuck, nigga, then throw it up
|
| If your clique be coming down, nigga, then throw it up
|
| If your clique be popping trunk, nigga, then throw it up
|
| If you fuck with SPC, nigga, you know you fucked, man
|
| Hold up, nigga
|
| The diabolical, dead hair follicles cause baldness
|
| Mass murder’s what you call this
|
| What determines which clique’s the hardest
|
| What makes the hardest rap artist the motherfucker that stays the same
|
| regardless
|
| From ‘8−6 to 2G
|
| Just take a long look at me
|
| I ain’t Ginuwine but I’m the same fucking G
|
| Still hoop and Macgregor, still kick a rhyme whenever
|
| Down to flip or fuck some hoes
|
| Still down for whatever
|
| The hardest motherfucking clique coming straight out the Park
|
| And get your head split bitch ‘cause this axe blade sharp
|
| And keep it like that, nigga, the game is real
|
| You must be sick if you think a psychopath won’t kill
|
| Now let me take a second just to tell you what I’m about
|
| And try to everybody in this bitch no doubt
|
| You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and handle his business
|
| You want a nigga to run inside this bitch and murder the witness
|
| And move something motherfucker, the psych might do ya
|
| (*mouth sound*) just like some sand when the wind went through ya
|
| Don’t give a motherfuck, nigga, the pallbearer’s inside
|
| Adding up the money he would make if six niggas died
|
| Playboy, it’s whatever, whenever, however you want it
|
| Been on that other level, nigga, quick to severe opponents
|
| So fuck the world, shit trick, me and my clique forever on it
|
| They call us hustle gang vest, these youngsters caught up in the moment
|
| You heard’a me, same nigga set up shop and hooked it with cookies that weighed
|
| I got niggas that watch my figures, tryna murder me
|
| Miss me with it, I’m SPC, playboy, since '93
|
| This for the ballers and the geekers, the crawlers and the creepers
|
| The 20 inch skaters, the park bench haters
|
| Capping but you can’t fade us, bitch, you down in your gators
|
| Slap a nigga for practice, bad actors major factors
|
| These the niggas I started with (Now what?)
|
| That SPC, best believe that we the hardest clique
|
| Point Blank was richer with the crumbs before you got the bricks
|
| I’m the one when I hold three trigger your face, I slap the bitch
|
| I put our load on top of my load and I ran with it
|
| The same shit you rap about hate to see me live it
|
| Now who the fuck you was talking about in that rhyme you spit?
|
| All that giggling shit, think a nigga ain’t listening to yo ass, boy
|
| Give me some space before I slap you with my dick
|
| You worse than a dry pussy bitch, can’t even get my finger wet, and yeah
|
| Back in high school, I heard you was a punk
|
| Always calling home, «Mama, mama, help, they tryna beat me up!»
|
| I metamorphosize into a new advanced fully enhanced
|
| Super brain hurricane against the grain, see futures at a glance
|
| Take a chance with the hood professor but don’t try to wreck
|
| Be 34 and rap opponents 30 styles and 30 dialects
|
| No mouth popping if you ever say my clout dropping
|
| Watch me run a thousand laps around your ass without stopping
|
| Proceeding to rip a style, I verbally trip a while
|
| And smile and whip a pile of hoes, hit ‘em, they flip a mile
|
| You played with K-Rino, stayed with it for days
|
| Made your face look like a grenade, hit it 400 ways
|
| You holler, «Why me?» |
| I called his house, I knew he was home
|
| His caller ID said, «Man, you better not pick up that phone»
|
| Poets are prolific, proportioning, posing paralysis
|
| Critical writer, verse wrote when existing didn’t exist
|
| Crash the show and scared the coldest rhymesayers to death
|
| Even the motherfucking microphone shit on itself
|
| I’m with the hardest clique |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Hardest Click, artist - K Rino. Album song Ten Year Run 1993-2003, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп